


Eu1972,01.7

by Caelanmiriel



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anniversary, Curator! Jaskier, Happy Valentines Day y'all, M/M, Picnics, THEY'RE MARRIED YOUR HONOUR, This is just fluff I don't even care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:41:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29428980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caelanmiriel/pseuds/Caelanmiriel
Summary: After a fire at his workplace, Jaskier's so caught up in, well,everythingthat his anniversary completely slips his mind.Luckily, it hasn't slipped Lambert's.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Comments: 11
Kudos: 45





	Eu1972,01.7

In an ideal world, Jaskier would have the dignity of hiding away in his office with the door locked, so at least if he does give in and cry, there’s nobody around to see it. This is the furthest he’s ever been from ideal. He doesn’t even know if he _has_ the luxury of an office anymore.

He makes inquiries about his office every day, sometimes multiple times if he’s particularly scatter-brained in that moment and forgets he’s already asked, but is always given the same answer; no word on if that part of the building is structurally sound, smoke and water damaged at best, destroyed at worse. Still, he’s counted lucky among his colleagues. Jaskier’s office is – or _was -_ directly above the historical fashion wing, similarly off limits and in questionable state. Poor Valdo can’t even go and catalogue his losses, can’t even get close enough to the wing to guess at how much damage might have been done. Jaskier’s only seen him a handful of times since the fire, and each time he’d been both utterly harried and understandably incandescent with rage, so much so that even the reporters hounding the building have had the sense to give him some space. There’s not an entrance they aren’t lurking at, harassing everyone that comes in or out for details about the arson, theories about the perpetrators, as if the staff are expected to do the police’s job as well as their own. God knows they’ve got more than enough work to do.

For lack of a better option, Jaskier’s spread himself out on the floor of the museum’s rare books library, accessible by special request only, and usually only by the types of students doing a PhD in something obscure. It’s easily his favourite place in the museum, more so even than the galleries under his care; small and cosy, with dark wood furniture and a glorious eighteenth century rug of dark green, worn by the years. It’s nothing short of a sanctuary to him, a place where he slips from the world and into the pages of a book as easy as he shrugs off a coat. It had carved a place in his heart when he was a student himself, lost in the research of his own obscure PhD, had spent weeks hunched over books from opening until closing when security had gently shooed him out. He would have been devastated if it had been lost, or even slightly scorched. As it is, there isn’t even a whiff of smoke, just the usual delicate, comforting scent of old pages and leather bindings.

“Should’ve known I’d find you in here.”

Jaskier jumps, almost fumbling the notebook he’s scrawling in, and looks up to find Lambert in the doorway. He’s slouching against the doorframe, wearing a sleek new coat, the royal blue shirt Jaskier loves so much peeking out from underneath. He looks even more roguishly handsome than usual, while Jaskier knows he looks a mess, sitting on the floor surrounded by boxes of records as he logs damages, wearing no shoes, sporting several days of stubble.

Lambert swoops in to kiss him anyway, slow and sweet, looking pleased with himself as he deposits a huge camping backpack at his feet and drops down to sit by Jaskier. “Do you know what the date is?”

“I don’t even know what time is is,” Jaskier admits; there aren’t any windows in the library, and he hasn’t been checking his phone to see the time. “Is it late?”

“Yeah. But you’re not the only one working late, I saw plenty of people that I’m betting will be here ‘til the wee hours. Interrupted a very intense conversation about imperial porphyry on my way in, whatever the fuck that is.”

Jaskier grins. “It’s a sculpture thing. That’ll be Filavandrel.” He takes off his glasses and cleans them on his sweater. “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s the date?”

Lambert wiggles out of his coat, dumping it aside without looking. “The twelfth.”

“That’s –” Jaskier can practically _feel_ himself pale as his heart tumbles into his stomach then shoots back up to his throat, the taste of guilt heavy. “Oh god, Bertie, our anniversary, _fuck_ , I’m so fucking sorry – “

“Hey, it’s fine,” Lambert interrupts, grinning softly as he takes Jaskier’s hand, the reassuring metal of his wedding ring digging into Jaskier’s palm. “You’ve got much bigger shit to worry about. Given what’s happened I reckon I can forgive you forgetting just one time, when you’re usually the sappy shit that remembers and celebrates our first date, our first kiss, the day we met, the first time we – “

“I don’t want you to feel like my job’s more important,” Jaskier says firmly. “Nothing’s more important.”

Lambert brings Jaskier’s hand to his mouth and kisses it. “I know. I’m not jealous because your job’s important to you, I’m just glad you get to do something you love. I like seeing you head out the door in the morning happy. Seriously, if I was pissed off I’d be stewing alone at home, not showing up with a picnic.”

“…a picnic.” Jaskier blinks incredulously. “You brought a _picnic_?”

Well, that certainly explains why he arrived looking so terribly pleased with himself. He all but rips the backpack open, producing from within the huge picnic blanket they used to take hiking when he and his brothers were kids, the one that is, allegedly, woven more from memories than material. He lays it out on the ground with a flourish, like some mediocre magician, and gestures pointedly with a grand sweep of his arms until Jaskier gets up and sits in the centre of it. He fumbles for a moment with a little pouch he tries to hide, and before Jaskier can ask what he’s up to, Lambert dramatically throws a small handful of rose petals into the air, haphazardly scattered and landing in Jaskier’s lap, his hair. He laughs before he can help himself, and Lambert’s grin turns from smug to soft.

“There’s that smile,” he says fondly, reaching out to press his hand to Jaskier’s cheek like he’s savouring something precious, not just Jaskier’s goofy, dimpled grin. “I’ve been missing it.”

Jaskier snorts, taking his hand to press a kiss to the palm. “Rose petals? Really?”

“Well, we need to celebrate properly, right?” He holds his hands out guilelessly, ‘ _what can you do?_ ’

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Next you’ll be telling me you’ve got champagne and strawberries in your little bag of wonders.”

Lambert’s grin turns sly, and oh, he’s so, _so_ very pleased with himself. “Now that you mention it…”

“You haven’t!”

Back into the bag he goes, bringing out a bottle of _expensive_ champagne, clearly chilled up until very recently.

“I can’t,” Jaskier protests, but he doesn’t refuse the flute pressed into his hands. “I really don’t think I should be drinking at work.”

“ _Technically_ , you’re off the clock, it is dark outside after all.” He pops the cork _incredibly_ carefully, pours them both a generous measure. “Besides, I already checked with Calanthe, and your fearless leader told me to make sure you actually took a break, and also that, and I quote, ‘we could all use a fucking drink’. Figured I’d lift everyone’s spirits and get in her good books in one fell swoop, so I called Geralt on the way up here, he agreed to send over a case or two. I know it won’t fix things, but I doubt any of your esteemed colleagues will turn down a nice piss-up.”

Jaskier kisses him on the cheek, then clinks their glasses in a cheery toast. “You’re a sweetheart and I love you. Make sure he sends me the bill.”

“Nope. It’s on him.” Lambert takes a long sip. “He owes me a whole laundry list of favours, and it’s not like the vineyards aren’t doing well, he can afford it. But, back to her highness’s other point, _apparently_ you haven’t been seen leaving this room in hours? You wanna tell me the last time you ate?”

“I’ll have you know I had a doughnut earlier. One of those fancy ones with Nutella inside and a praline chocolate on the top. Eist brought them by.”

“Uh-huh? _When?_ ”

Jaskier does his best to meet Lambert’s stare, but he’s never been very good at it; Lambert rarely pushes a point unless he knows he’s right, and Jaskier’s long learned when to graciously accept defeat. “I don’t know,” he sighs, “afternoon sometime?”

Lambert gives him a gently scolding look, setting down his champagne. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. But aren’t you lucky, the most glorious, handsome, _stunningly_ generous man is here, and he knows all your favourites.”

“I didn’t know Eskel was here,” Jaskier says dryly.

“Fuck off, or you’re not getting the macarons.”

Jaskier gives him a considering look, absently trailing his fingertip around the rim of the glass. “ _Cahir_ ’ _s_ macarons?”

“Mmhm. Salted caramel.”

He heaves a great, put upon sigh. “Well, I _suppose_ I can behave. For a while.”

“Good boy.”

“Oh, don’t start that game, or I shan’t be behaving at all.”

Their grins are matching, devious and filled with promise. “Later, maybe. First, _eat_.”

He finally returns to the task of emptying out the bag, pulling out all manner of containers and paper bags and laying them out neatly on the rug between them; couscous and bite-sized quiches, crumbly cheeses, chorizo, sushi, pâté and fresh fluffy bread and the spicy rotisserie chicken that Jaskier adores but Vesemir won’t give him the recipe for, cream cakes and scones and brownies, muffins, lemon tarts, plump strawberries, all the little treats he knows Jaskier can’t resist.

“I can’t eat all this,” Jaskier protests, already reaching for the chicken with eager fingers.

Lambert shrugs, tossing a piece of Eskel’s finest goat cheese into his mouth. “Guess we’ll have to have another picnic to finish it off then won’t we, eat in all our favourite places. The woods, the trail.”

“Hm. The beach.”

“Sand in all the right places.”

“Fuck you, I’m behaving.”

Lambert snorts his ugly, delightful laugh, the one that never fails to make Jaskier’s heart flutter. “Listen, I regret any threats I might have made at an earlier point in time, and would like to rescind them in favour of encouraging your misbehaviour. Look, I even have a bribe.” He takes one of the macarons Jaskier so loves, baked to perfection, and offers it carefully; Jaskier takes it with his teeth, and even in his scruffiest conservation sweater with days of stubble and stray rose petals still clinging to his hair like he’s been dragged through a hedge, he’ll never cease to be the most beautiful thing Lambert’s seen.

Jaskier pretends to mull it over while he chews. “Hm. No.”

“Bastard. What if I give you your present?”

He’s in and out of the backpack in a flash, laying an appallingly wrapped present in between them.

“Aw, _shit_. I’ve had your present for months, but it’s at home, can I give it to you –“

Lambert cuts him off by pulling out a familiar parcel, much better wrapped, and sets it in front of himself. “I know where you always hide the presents,” he says apologetically. “But I never peek. Promise.”

Jaskier licks crumbs from his fingers, for once relieved by Lambert’s shameless habit of snooping. “Is there anything you didn’t think of?”

“If you’re asking if I’ve got a condom in my wallet, yes, always.”

“ _Behaving_.”

“ _Boring_ ,” Lambert sing-songs back.

Jaskier takes aim to throw a strawberry at him, then changes his mind and takes a bite instead. “Shut up and open your present,” he says with his mouth full.

Lambert makes a show of it, slowly untying the ribbon, sliding his fingers under the edges of the paper and easing apart the creases, but once he catches a glimpse of what’s inside he drops the act, tearing the paper free as his mouth hangs open.

“You didn’t. Julek, you fucking _didn’t._ ”

Some time ago, almost a year in fact, Lambert had been very quietly pining over a _very_ expensive set of pigments, finely ground in glass vials, just waiting to be mulled and turned into the sort of masterpiece that keeps Lambert in his studio for weeks, late into the night, surrounded by empty coffee mugs with paint ground in under his nails. He’d never buy anything so extravagant for himself, no matter how badly he wanted it, but, well, he’d never said _Jaskier_ couldn’t. Besides, Jaskier’s surrounded by curators and conservationists on a daily basis; sourcing something extraordinary is easily within his remit.

Lambert’s fingers hover for a moment, trailing over the cool glass like he’s too afraid to properly handle it, then launches into an explosion of noise, talking excitedly and mile-a-minute about azurite and malachite and seashells and binders and _David Bowie_ for some reason, gesturing wildly with one hand while he chatters about the Meiji era and Renaissance Italian frescoes; Jaskier reclines back on the blanket and lazily butters some bread, soaking up Lambert’s enthusiasm with a genuine soft joy and thinking about how he was utterly _wasted_ not working alongside them all. It’d be a wonder, he thinks idly, to see Lambert sharing this delight with museum guests, to see him bent over damaged pieces and lovingly bringing them back to life.

In this moment, in his favourite place, listening to his husband ramble about something that he loves so very dearly, Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever been happier.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact! The title is an item reference number from the British Museum, because I'm that kinda nerd, and I ain't sorry.
> 
> [Come say hi on twitter](https://twitter.com/Caelanmiriel), and check out my pinned tweet if you'd like to either support my work or get a fic for yourself!!


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